


The Blood of Winterfell

by Slut_4_Jagermeister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Jonerys, Some Fluff, Some angst, family vacay to winterfell, minor identity crisis, targlings, winterfell crypts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 17:32:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18168083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slut_4_Jagermeister/pseuds/Slut_4_Jagermeister
Summary: Inspo:"Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her." Arya I AGOT





	The Blood of Winterfell

Jon found his son in the godswood, just as he had expected. It was a scene out of an old memory, and the King wondered if this was how it had felt for Bran whenever he visited the past. His boy was curled up in a too-big cloak under the heart tree, sniffling softly. This weirwood was hardly more than a sapling, though, barely big enough for the freshly cut face in it’s trunk. The ancient one that used to watch over Winterfell had burned to cinders years ago, back when the Night King had laid siege to the castle.

Summer snow crunched under Jon’s feet as he made his way over to the tree. He sighed and knelt before the bundle of cloth and fur. “Daemon.” A small face peeked out from under the cloak, red and tear stained. Dark grey eyes, _my eyes_ , were still watery and refused to meet his father’s gaze. “Yes, father?” He asked quietly, lower lip caught between gapped teeth.

“Can you tell me what happened? Why you’re out here alone?” When the boy finally looked at him, he seemed like to start crying all over again.

“I was playing with Robb..” Jon nodded in encouragement. Daemon and Sansa’s son had taken to each other immediately when their party had finally made it to Winterfell. So much so that they had yet to be separated, save for sleeping. _And now_.

“He asked me if I was a bastard, since I don’t look like mother, or my brothers and sisters.” The wind left Jon’s lungs and he felt as though he’d taken a blow to the chest. Daemon started crying again, and tears pricked Jon’s own eyes. “I-is it true? Who is my mother really, then?” The boy rose from the cloak and flung himself into his father’s arms to sob into his jerkin. Out of the five children Daenerys had borne him, his youngest son was the only one to take after him in looks.

Jon caught him and held him close, assuring into the dark mop of curls that he wasn’t, that he was a true born prince. He wanted to cry along with his son, truth be told. His children meant the world to him, and to think that even for a minute they’d believe...The King shook it off. He would talk to Sansa about it later. Finally, the sniffling ceased.

“Listen to me,” Jon prompted softly. He tilted Daemon’s chin up so he would meet his father’s gaze. “I was there when you were born, the first one to ever hold you. You just have a little more of the wolf blood is all, and your mother loves you all the more for _this_.” He took a moment to muss his son’s hair, and was granted a small smile.

“What’s the wolf blood? We’re _dragons_.”

Jon thought a moment, trying to decide the best way to explain. _Seven is old enough_. He stood and held out his hand. Daemon took it, and together they walked to the heavy ironwood door of the crypts. One hard push and they were in, toeing carefully down the narrow stairwell. The King grabbed a torch in hand when they reached the the bottom and took a deep breath. It still smelled the same, of musty earth and death. The castle above may have been burned to ash once, but those blue flames had not been able to reach the roots of Winterfell. There was power here, Jon knew. Old power.

If Daemon was frightened he didn’t show it, inspecting the old tombs with childlike wonder. The crypts still held ghosts for Jon, though, even after all these years. Robb, Lord Eddard, Rickon, Bran, Lyanna. _Mother_. Visiting her statue always made his heart twinge. He lit her candle last and looked down to his son.

“Here is where we get it from. We’re dragons, but we’re wolves too.” Jon gestured to the statue. “This is your grandmother, Lyanna Stark. The she-wolf of Winterfell. Did you know she was a knight?” The child’s eyes lit up.

“Really?” Jon had to smile.

“Aye, once. At Harrenhal. Squires were kicking one of her father’s bannermen for being from the Neck; the man that would later become Lord Reed. You remember Lady Meera, yes?” Jon waited for Daemon to nod, and continued. “She beat them off with a tourney sword, and your great uncle Benjen helped her find armor that night after the feast. Your grandmother entered the lists as a mystery knight and challenged the three Sers that the squires belonged to. She defeated them all in the joust and demanded they be taught honor as ransom.

“ _The Knight of the Laughing Tree_ , she was called, for the smiling weirwood on the shield Benjen had found. Your grandfather Rhaegar was tasked to find out who the champion was. He came back with only the shield and told everyone the mystery knight had escaped, but your uncle Bran told me Rhaegar found Lyanna. That’s where they met and began to fall in love. He kept her secret for her.”

“Then they ran away together.” His son finished. Jon nodded. “She’s very pretty.” He observed. Jon’s throat threatened to close.

“Aye,” he rasped. “She was.” They stood in silence for a long moment, until Daemon broke it.

“Does this mean I get a wolf too, to go with my egg?” He asked, stroking the stone one at Lyanna’s side. Jon had to laugh.

“Maybe we’ll find some oneday, like I found Ghost.” The boy had never known the wolf, but Daenerys revelled in telling stories about him. “Now come on lad,” Jon took his hand again. “Your mother will be worried sick.”


End file.
